How Could I Miscalculate
by long island lolita
Summary: He shouldn't be doing this. The shreds of his conscience alerted him to this days ago. Or the play-by-play of Harvey Dent's downfall, in five parts. Title from "The No Seatbelt Song" by Brand New.


Fic: How Could I Miscalculate

**Fic**: How Could I Miscalculate  
**Disclaimer**: Batman and all characters and rights belong to DC Comics, not me. I don't claim to own any of it.  
**Summary**: (_He shouldn't be doing this. The shreds of his conscience alerted him to this days ago. Who'd of thought he'd fall in line with that agent of chaos, his worst enemy? Face twisted by scars with tales so blurred and retold the original story is but a faded memory, war paint drawn on by shaky fingers, oh that sadistic masochistic psychopath that was right about us._ ) Or the play-by-play of Harvey Dent's downfall, in five parts.

He knows Gordon's never been a beggar. Honestly, he gets it. He's a commissioner. He shouldn't have to. But love goes above pride, blood is thicker than water, and the story stays the same; so he's lying on a brick floor, liquid eyes not shielded, but maximized, by paternal glasses.  
Physical gestures of grandeur drip with morose, meaningful apologizes that don't mean shit to him and _Maybe I can save you_. (_Maybe I can save me._  
Maybe not. Karma and Luck walk hand in hand and if there ever was a bitch. Well. You know what they say.)

Fairness is all he really wants, you know. Equality. Justice. He (wasn't?) isn't the goddamn Gotham D.A. for nothing.  
Court is, when stripped down and simplified, just vengeance for the innocent. He's good at court; he's good at vengeance. It just makes sense to keep practicing. He won't let a leave of absence based on his health demolish his talents. And think of it this way: Rachel was innocent and didn't deserve what she got. He's making sure she gets her due.  
At least, when he returns to his position, he won't be out of shape.  
He will be back. For Rachel. He will not lose what's left of himself. (As if he hasn't already.)

He likes relying on his coin. It's fair (and you already know how he feels about that). Fifty fifty. He can't predict it and that honestly makes him feel a little better about having people die. No plans, like the clown said. It all just goes with the flow. It's out of his control; therefore, out of his hands.  
(Rachel was right. He shouldn't leave things like this to chance. Come to think of it, Batty said it too.  
He guesses it just didn't get through.)

Gordon is so lucky. He has a family. A home. A life. A job.  
How dare Gordon rip that all away from him.  
_How do you fucking expect me to be the White Knight after I've killed and exploited your best men, huh Gordon? _his mind fires, furious and raging like wildfire. Maybe this will take the edge off. Firing a gun into an eight-year-old's skull.  
The little boy's blond hair ruffles lightly under his singed and calloused hands, tingling what's left of his muscles and nerves. It's an odd feeling; you never really realize what goes on in your body until you see it when you wake up in the morning. He wonders if the little boy can feel it on his scalp, the pulse and rush of his blood coursing through his skeletal fingers, muscles torn and burned so badly that the lightest friction breaks the tentative skin.  
Teary blue eyes bore holes of betrayal through his face, hurt and innocence being contorted and blended on the little boy's cute features.  
(He shouldn't be doing this. The shreds of his conscience alerted him to this days ago. Who'd of thought he'd fall in line with that agent of chaos, his worst enemy? Face twisted by scars with tales so blurred and retold the original story is but a faded memory, war paint drawn on by shaky fingers, oh that sadistic masochistic psychopath that was right about us. )  
Gordon asks him to spare the boy's life. Punish him, not the boy.  
He tells him not to worry. That was the plan anyway. (Well, you know what he means.)

The coin soars delicately through the air, slowly and catching what little light there is in the place, this haloed and bloodstained place, reeking of lost chances and burning gasoline. How ironic that Gordon's family will die here, too. The clown is probably laughing his ass off. He winces at the thought, his muscles searing in pain. (That at this point, he probably deserves.)  
It lands facedown on his palm, rushing him back down to earth. Batman falls like in a shooting gallery. Snap, quick.  
It flips again, time slowing back down. He aims the gun at his head, the good side (he must be bleeding irony, he's shooting his goodness, if only the goddamned clown could see him now). No regrets, no pauses, no fear. This could be his only chance at escape.  
Face up. His head is removed from the cutting block; oh well. He flips the coin again-  
He feels the massive Kevlar body hitting him before he sees it, doesn't see it at all, his hand pried from its grasp on mini-Gordon, fall, fall, fall, Rachel, I Believe in Harvey Dent, she said yes, and he hears her, calling his name, oh maybe he's lucky, suspended between life and death, hit the ground, please, the damn clown was right-  
Everything burns.  
Fade to black.


End file.
